Late Night Phonecall
by Raggedpelt
Summary: A short one-shot from Grunkle Stan's POV. It takes place right after the events of The Last Mabelcorn.


With a sigh, Stan hung up the phone and eased himself out of bed, wincing as his neck, lower back, and knees protested. Huh, his shoulders weren't in on it today. Well, that was a plus. He fumbled around on the nightstand to find his glasses, and glanced at the clock. 3:25 am. Today was already shaping up to be a _long_ day.

It was quiet, save for the sound of rain beating against the roof. He got dressed in a rush, then stepped out into the dark hallway. No need to bother with the lights; he knew the Mystery Shack like the back of his hand. There was the faint whimper of a sleeping pug from the hall closet. With the way the rain was coming down, he was glad he'd moved them from the crawlspace under the house; it had a tendency to flood when the weather was like this.

Ford had taken up residence in Soos's break room. Stan was a bit surprised that his brother hadn't ousted him from his bedroom, but hell, he wasn't going to complain. At the end of the summer, he was gonna be homeless anyway. Sixer was apparently still up to god knows what—Stan could see the light coming from under the door. He considered knocking and letting Ford know where he was going, but decided against it.

Might as well check on the kids before heading out—or at least make sure that THEY were in bed at this godforsaken hour of the morning. Neither was particularly prone to late night escapades, but they also had a tendency to pull shit when he least expected it. Stan headed upstairs, his left knee bitching relentlessly at every step. He slowly turned the doorknob all the way to disengage the latch before pulling the door open, so it wouldn't catch and make noise.

Mabel's bed was empty, which made his stomach roll. He spotted her a heartbeat later, sound asleep in a pile of stuffed animals she had made at the foot of the bed. Her favorite, a stuffed unicorn, had been banished from the pile—literally. It was sitting about ten feet away, with a note stuck on it's face that said "BANISHED" in big red letters. He was a bit surprised he hadn't heard all about whatever it "did" to upset her. Typically Stan got filled in on all the details about Mabel's stuffed animals shifting alliances and factions. In excruciating, exhausting detail.

Dipper sat bolt upright in his bed, and Stan nearly jumped out of his shoes. They stared at each other wide-eyed for a second, then Dipper stammered, "H-how many eyes do you have?"

"...Two, kid."

With that, Dipper flopped back down and was immediately sound asleep. Stan didn't think he had ever actually been awake.

He eased the door shut, threw on his jacket, and stepped out into the, ugh, weather. Rain was falling in heavy sheets, turning the parking lot into a pond, and cutting a half-dozen little streams across the front lawn. As he slogged over to his battered red Diablo, the water rose to his ankles, penetrating his shoes and socks in an instant. When Stan turned the key, the car spluttered and chugged, but refused to turn over. One attempt. Two. Three. "Oh, come on!" he growled, pounding his fist on the dash, "Get moving!"

Finally, the Diablo roared to life, and Stan threw it into gear. At first the wheels hydroplaned, and the car went nowhere, but it got purchase and launched itself down the road. The heavy rain made the windshield useless, but Stan was able to feel his way by the vibrations that the guard rails caused as they scraped down the side of the car. He figured he was taking some paint off, but what the hell. Some red spraypaint would fix that right up.

About ten minutes later, conditions improved and Stan could once again see out the windshield. Sort-of. He wasn't sure whether the tree cover had gotten thicker, or the rain had backed off, but either way he could at least make out the yellow lines. It would do. Knowing Ford, he probably would have designed some big ugly thing to slap on the top of the car that would make the clouds run away, or something ridiculous like that.

Ford. Getting him back had turned into Stan's life work, but now that he was here, everything had changed. Stanley didn't know what he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't what he got. It was as if the universe had crowed, _Life's work accomplished, you can go die now._ He'd lived in that damn house for thirty years, and at the end of the summer he was going to be homeless again. At least the car was his; that would at least give him a place to sleep until he could find...something.

His man focus had become keeping the kids out of harm's way, and hoarding as much cash as he could before the summer's end. Stan knew he was going to have to live on it for a while. He'd gotten a fair-sized payoff from this pug-trafficking gig (and they hadn't chewed everything all to hell like the time he tried it with labradors), and he'd embezzled about three quarters of his campaign fund. He could probably live on that for two, maybe three years, if he was careful. Hell, maybe with some clever bets, he could live off of it indefinitely. There had to be at least ONE casino left that hadn't already banned him for counting cards. He could also maybe try his luck at the ponies; a good buddy of his back in the day told him that sometimes if you bribe a jockey, you could-

A loud THUNK and a sudden impact startled Stan out of his thoughts; apparently he had veered off the road at some point and struck one of the redwoods. Damn thing was wider across than his car. Grumbling to himself, Stan threw it hard into reverse, and stood on the accelerator, but the tires spun uselessly.

"Goddamn mud," he huffed, getting out to survey the situation. The Diablo's rear tires had torn two deep grooves into the mud behind the car, but hadn't made any progress in moving it. Stan squinted through the rain collecting on his glasses and weighed his options, before finding a few good-sized rocks to throw in the trunk. The trunk lid wouldn't shut with them in there, but fuck it. He slammed the driver-side door extra-hard as he got back in. Didn't help anything, but it did make him feel a little better.

This time, the extra weight over the rear tires was enough, and the Diablo shot backwards into the road. Something clattered off the back of it—probably a road sign. Who cared, he was back on track now. Stan threw it back into drive, and continued on his way. At least the kids weren't in the car with him, so he could swear under his breath all he wanted.

Stan was worried as hell over those kids. Mabel was sunny as ever, but Dipper just seemed like a string that was getting wound tighter and tighter. And the more time he spent around that lunatic Ford, the worse he seemed to get. Always tense, always looking over his shoulder, always second-guessing. Two days ago, Stan had overheard Mabel call Dipper "Pine Tree" as a joke, and the kid damn near lost it; it'd taken her over a quarter hour to talk him down. Stan hadn't intervened, but he'd listened VERY closely from the next room in case he needed to. The day before that, Waddles had tried to chew the cover off of one of the stupid journals, and Dipper had tackled the poor animal and shone a flashlight into it's eyes "just to check".

Stan couldn't put his finger on why, but something about that just made his skin crawl.

Stan pulled off the main road, and into one of Gravity Falls little residential areas; the sound of heavy bass told him he was getting close. He'd already forgotten the address, but it wasn't hard to find the party. The music was giving him a headache, and he hadn't even gotten out of the car yet. He parked it, shut off his hearing aids, and walked up to the front door.

Wendy was slumped on the front porch. She was a wobbly, teary mess, but at least she'd had enough sense to sit out of the rain. When Stan walked up, she looked up at him just a bit too slowly, her eyes tracking a bit from side to side. "H-hi Mishter Pinesh," she mumbled. Stan idly wondered whether she was avoiding eye contact, or just not managing to keep it.

"Why didn't you call your dad, kid?"

"Hn t-totally kill me."

Considering some of the public temper tantrums that Stan had seen Dan Corduroy throw, that didn't strike him as an unrealistic fear. "Get in the car. You got a bike or something?"

Wendy vaguely gestured at a few bikes that were leaning up against the garage, and staggered over to the car. Stan watched as she slipped, fell, righted herself, repeated that, then stared at the passenger-side door like a monkey doing a math problem.

While she figured that one out, he grabbed three or four of the bikes and threw them in the rear seat. Hey, at least one of them was hers, and he could probably fence the "extras" for profit. Maybe he could give two of 'em a quick paint job and save them for presents for when Dipper and Mabel went home.

Once he got back in the car, though, the smell of alcohol was pretty overwhelming. How much had she _had?_ It reminded Stan that he had some pretty good scotch stowed in his room. He'd have to make sure that went with him when Ford kicked him to the curb.

"If you've gotta puke, open the door first."

"Nmkay."

 _Good enough._ Stan threw the Diablo in gear to take her back home. With any luck, he'd be back at the Shack in time to make a good breakfast for the kids.


End file.
